We were on the veranda with our after-dinner cigars. I was
congratulating Hovey on the felicity of his choice and jocularly
sympathizing with his wife.

"Yes," said my cousin, with a sigh, "I never regretted it till
last week. It will never be the same again."

Mrs. Hovey looked at him with supreme disdain.

"I suppose you mean Senora Ramal," said she scornfully.

Her husband, feigning the utmost woe, nodded mournfully;
whereupon she began humming the air of the Chanson du Colonel,
and was stopped by a smothering kiss.

"And who is the Senora Ramal?" I asked.

"The most beautiful woman in the world," said Mrs. Hovey.

This from a woman who was herself beautiful! Amazing! I suppose
my face betrayed my thought.

"It isn't charity," she smiled. "Like John Holden, I have seen
fire-balloons by the hundred, I have seen the moon, and--then I
saw no more fire-balloons."

"But who is she?"

Hovey explained. "She is the wife of Senor Ramal. They came